Emerald Sceptre (10 page)

“Laithe or whoever you are, please!” Lak begged.

“Hetta!” Quill gasped. “It’s actually you?”

The woman turned and glared at Quill. “Yes. Now hush. I don’t want to speak to you for a good long time. Now,” she said, turning back to Pilos, “how about that light? Time’s wasting.”

“I need my coin,” Pilos said, relief flooding through him and making his voice waver. “It should be in the bag with the rest of Em’s and Xaphira’s things.”

Hetta, in Laithe’s body, fetched the holy symbol from within the bag and quickly enough, Pilos enchanted it to glow with soft, pearlescent light. She hung it around his neck and they turned to climb the stairs by its illumination, leaving Lak and Borth pleading in terror not to be left behind.

Their voices echoed up the spiral stairwell for a long time after Pilos, Quill, and Hetta left them, then without warning, the echoes were gone.

The climb was awkward and painful with the chains locked about their ankles, but the threesome made steady progress to the top. The route back to the prison was not far, and the trio returned to the

chamber where Pilos and Emriana had first been captured.

The mirror was gone.

II 11 III

“There are too many of them!” Vambran yelled, yanking his sword free from yet another twitching, quivering zombie. The undead thing dropped in a heap at his feet, but two more shuffled closer to take its place, pressing the mercenary officer back. Even more of them, visible in the glare of the magical flare he had launched to help his tiny group see and fight, swarmed around the periphery of the battle. He slashed at the nearest one and lopped its arm off, but with every swing of his sword, the blade felt heavier. “We can’t keep this up!”

“We should fall back,” Arbeenok said, fighting on Vambran’s left. “But the path is cut off in both directions.”

Behind him and to the other side, the lieutenant heard Elenthia gasp, and he risked a quick glance in her direction to see what had upset her. Though she continued to swing the light mace they had found for her to use, pounding with both hands on anything that got close, her eyes were wide with unsuppressed horror, staring at something in the gloom. He shoved his blade out, skewering the nearest zombie, and stole another quick glance away from his fight, in the direction she had been staring.

Four more of the creatures were ambling out of a building on the far side of the street, distinct enough in the glow of the flare that Vambran recognized the identical cut and color of their clothing.

The Order of the Sapphire Crescent.

By the Bitch Queen, Vambran silently swore, recognizing them, naming their names in his head automatically: Hort Blogermun, Blangarl and Tholis, and the lad Velati. He wanted to retch.

Vambran stared for only a moment, but it was long enough for one of the nearest zombies to swing a fist near his head. He barely ducked in time, then anger and grief made his next swing vehement. The two halves of the zombie tumbled apart as they flopped to a street already slick with blood.

I kept hoping, the mercenary realized, that maybe they were still alive, imprisoned but safe. Damn! Damn them!

The lieutenant tightened his grip on his sword and slashed at the next zombie to stray near, and the next, and the next. His swings were vicious, driven by fury and grief. Chunks of bruised and decaying flesh flew in all directions, accompanied by spatters of cold, congealed blood. Undead bodies fell to the street, shorn apart by the mercenary’s bitter rage. He waded in among the nightmare creatures, relentless. With every one he destroyed, he prayed to Waukeen, and to every other god he could think of who might care.

He prayed for the spirits of the people he was freeing from their already-dead bodies. Prayed for their families and loved ones.

He tried not to see their faces, not to see them as actual people. Some of them, sadly, were short and slight, after all. He kept cutting and slashing, trying to destroy the taint of the plague, driving forward, clearing a swath through the undead as tears rolled down his cheeks.

He didn’t even let up when his blade sliced through the white and blue of a soldier he once knew.

What seemed like a long time later, exhausted, Vambran Matrell could find no more zombies to destroy. All around him, the tattered and broken remains of undead lay sprawled on the blood-slick cobblestones. None moved. Somewhere along the way, the magical light of his flare had vanished, and he had continued to battle by the light of Selune’s sliver. The night was unnaturally still.

The mercenary let his blade drop then felt the overwhelming weariness in his arms, his legs, and his broken heart. He almost sat down right there, in the middle of the street. He didn’t want to look at the bodies. If he looked at the bodies, he would see people—merchants, midwives, and children who were both horrific and all-too-human and fragile at the same time. So he stared at nothing for a while. Stared and panted and felt nothing but numbness.

Finally, Vambran remembered that he was not alone. Two people, alive, had been with him. He looked around.

Arbeenok was near the garden wall where they had started fighting. He watched the mercenary—a grim look was fixed on the alaghi’s face. Elenthia was beside the druid, kneeling, her arms folded and resting across her raised knee. She also watched him, her eyes wide, staring. She seemed aghast.

The lieutenant began to walk toward the pair, and he thought Elenthia recoiled the tiniest bit. He held up his hand to show her that he was all right, and what he saw nearly made him stumble. He halted in mid step.

The mercenary’s entire arm was sheathed in thick, black blood.

Vambran stared down and saw that he was drenched in gore from head to foot. The realization

chilled him despite the warm, humid evening. Blood clung to him and ran in rivulets down his arms. It was matted in his hair. Somewhere, he knew, the blood of his soldiers was mingled in that mess.

“Water,” Vambran said, filled with the urge to wash it away. “I need water,” he repeated. He came closer, his arms spread out, unable to abide touching the slick wetness all over himself.

Elenthia said nothing, merely stared. But Arbeenok nodded. “On the other side of this wall,” the alaghi said, “1 can hear water running. Let’s find a way inside.”

Vambran nodded and stumbled after the druid. Elenthia rose and followed the two of them, but she kept her distance from the mercenary.

Vambran glanced over at Elenthia once and caught her staring at him. In her eyes he saw sorrow and repulsion. “It will wash away,” he told her. He wondered if he meant it for himself, too.

“You—” she said, faltering. “I watched you—” Elenthia shook her head, unable to continue. She sped ahead, running to catch up to Arbeenok.

Vambran started to call to her, but he understood that words could not undo what he had become in her eyes. He recognized that haunted look all too well.

The druid led them to the side of the garden wall and discovered a gate set into it near the corner. It was locked, but the alaghi threw his shoulder into it a couple of times and broke through. Beyond the portal, the garden was filled with thick, flowering vines and meandering paths. Lush greenery rustled in the gentle sea breezes, blending the scent of their blossoms, and the trickle of running water came from near the middle of the enclosure. Arbeenok pushed through the dripping foliage and headed in that

direction. Elenthia followed right behind the druid, leaving Vambran to bring up the rear.

When Vambran caught up to his two companions, he found them standing very still. They were at the edge of an open courtyard partially lit by a few lanterns hanging from poles around the perimeter. A fountain had once stood in the midst of the tiny plaza, a sculpture of a deific being bearing a shield and a horn and posing regally. But it was knocked over, and water flowed out of its basin and spilled onto the paving stones. There, a pair of great battles had been fought.

The first was all in miniature, an elaborate setup of children’s blocks made to look like a city, all walls and towers. Tiny toy soldiers were scattered through the city, many of them fallen, as though a great and terrible dragon had arrived and blasted them all from their defenses. The water from the ruined fountain spilled into the miniature city and flowed along its streets before draining away into the grass beyond.

The second battle was far more real. A contingent of what appeared to be House guards lay dead, scat-, tered about the plaza. Intermingled with them were others, citizens, their skin pasty and blistered in the pale moonlight. It was clear to Vambran that the plague had visited that house, and no one had survived.

“Will any of them rise?” he asked Arbeenok as he stepped around Elenthia. “Perhaps we should not tarry here.”

Arbeenok said nothing, though, so Vambran moved to the fountain, stepping among the toy blocks as he did so. He knelt down next to the basin and began to wash himself, rinsing away the film of blood as

best as he could. He dunked his head in the water, swishing his hair about, trying to cleanse both his body and his mind of the terrible crimson taint that covered him. He didn’t even care that the three blue dots inked on his forehead, his symbol of his education, were little more than pale turquoise smudges by the time he finished.

“I don’t understand,” Arbeenok said.

Vambran wiped water from his eyes and looked at the druid. “What?” he asked.

“My vision,” Arbeenok said. “I see you there, as it Was in my vision, but I still do not understand what it means.”

“Your vision? What vision?”

“In the days before this journey, I foresaw this image. A man of blue and red, standing over a drowned city, a city surrounded by twelve swords. But I did not understand it.”

Vambran looked around at himself, at his position. All the elements of the druid’s description were there. He was in the middle of it all, partially washed clean so that his blue tunic showed through, and partially still tainted red by countless people’s blood. And the soldiers’ swords that lay scattered about the periphery completed the scene. It was not a pleasant image.

“Twelve swords?” Elenthia asked, seeming at last to come out of her stupor. “I don’t count twelve. There are only nine dead guards.”

Arbeenok nodded and pointed at the fountain. “There is a pair upon that shield,” he said, and Vambran saw that the symbol engraved on the stone was indeed a set of crossed swords.

Then he looked down. “And my own blade makes twelve,” he breathed. “But what does it mean?”

“It is the means of stopping the plague,” Arbeenok said. “It is salvation for this city.”

“What? Me, here? In this garden?”

“I don’t know,” Arbeenok replied, looking doubtful. “I don’t think so. I—I don’t know,” he finished, shaking his head.

Elenthia bent down then, staring at the tiny city. “You said it was a drowned city?” she asked. “As in, covered in water?”

Arbeenok nodded. “Yes,” the alaghi said. “But I do not know what that means.”

“I think I do,” the woman replied. “The Cities of the Twelve Swords.”

“What?” Vambran asked, standing and shaking water from himself. He felt cleaner but still tainted.

“Ancient Jhaamdath,” Elenthia replied. “The cities of Jhaamdath were called the Cities of the Twelve Swords.”

“But Jhaamdath is at the bottom of the Reach,” the mercenary said, doubtful of her interpretation.

“Exactly,” Elenthia said, nodding. “Washed away by the wrath of the elves over fifteen hundred years ago.”

Arbeenok nodded eagerly. “We must go there. Now. The secret of stopping the plague can be found there.”

Vambran turned to look at the druid askance. “That’s an awful lot of water to swim through,” he said. “Do you have any idea where we should start?”

“No,” the alaghi answered, smiling, “but you do.” “Me?” Vambran said, shaking his head in denial.

“I don’t have the smallest notion,” he insisted. “You are the man in my vision,” Arbeenok said.

“Just because I had a little blood on me does not make me the figure in your portent,” Vambran argued.

“It does,” Arbeenok insisted. “I thought at first it symbolized a man who was at odds with himself, struggling between two paths—the blue and the red—and would find himself somewhere in between. But I was not taking it literally enough.”

Vambran sighed. “Blue and red at odds, you say?” he asked. “As in my struggle between my duty to the Crescents and to my House?”

“Your house is red?” Arbeenok asked, puzzled.

“No, but the insignia is. A red four-pointed star, and all the guards wear that as a patch on their uniforms.”

Arbeenok smiled again. “There, you see? You do believe it.”

Vambran grimaced and nodded. “I still don’t know how I’m supposed to find whatever it is we’re looking for,” he said.

“Let that take care of itself,” the druid said. “The visions will guide us true.”

“Vambran,” Elenthia said, coughing.

“What?” the mercenary asked, turning to look at his counterpart.

Elenthia was holding her arm up in the air, staring at it. It was discolored, turning purplish blue. She coughed again, harder. “The plague,” she said. “I think I’ve gotten it.”

• • •

Being drawn back out of the mirror was just as unnerving as having been sucked into it. Emriana felt turned inside out, but just as soon as it washed

over her, the feeling was gone again. She found herself huddled naked on the thick throw rug in the middle of Lobra’s bedroom. Denrick stood beside her, leering down. The hunger in his eyes made her shiver.

On the far side of the chamber, Lobra sat upon a small couch, one leg drawn up beneath her. She regarded Emriana with what appeared to be mild amusement. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?” she asked.

“For what?” she asked, disoriented.

“Why, for letting you out, of course,” the woman replied. “Or did you forget your manners while you were tucked away in there?”

Emriana wasn’t sure there was a correct answer to that question, but she didn’t want to anger the woman before she even had a chance to get her bearings. “Thank you,” she mumbled, huddling tighter. “Can I have my clothes, please?”